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Nine a.m. on Saturday saw me back in the café, and today, I needed the caffeine more than ever. Dasha had spent five hours in Tribeca last night, meandering through the streets, occasionally stopping to talk with people, studying the buildings, all while going through three changes of clothes and four different accents. A little after midnight, she’d looped her arm through mine and stumbled down the service road that led to Belgravia Place’s parking garage in a pink sequinned party dress, then retched into a dumpster. A security guard had arrived within sixty seconds and politely but firmly asked us to take a hike. Dasha’s reaction? A wrinkle of the nose, followed by a “Hmm, they’re vaguely competent.”
This morning, she was out on the street again, apparently waiting for a bus while I picked at a triple chocolate muffin in the café. I knew who’d gotten the better end of the deal.
“Who’s the blonde?” she asked quietly through my hidden earpiece.
I’d been researching the building’s occupants, but I’d only identified a quarter of them so far.
“I’m not sure.”
Luckily, the café was busy, full of tourists and office workers, and half a dozen of them were on the phone. My murmured words drew no attention.
“And the dog walker? Was she here yesterday?”
Finally, a question I could answer. “Yes, at the same time.”
“Hmm.”
I watched as Dasha left her spot and bent to pet the mutt. Was it a Shih Tzu? A Bichon Frisé? Whatever, it had been primped to within an inch of its life, and it desperately needed some anti-frizz serum. Dasha chatted with the walker for a minute or two, then wandered off along the street, not a care in the world.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“To the park. The sun’s out. Want to come?”
“Hello? We’re working?”
“I know this.”
Good thing I didn’t leave because fifteen minutes later, Cesare Cavallaro strode out of the building. The concierge rushed to open the door for him, and why didn’t he lick Cesare’s boots while he was at it? Yes, yes, I understood that opening the door was his job, but the man was obsequious to the max with the residents, and then he treated the staff and delivery drivers like dirt. I saw him through the huge windows, wagging his finger and crossing his arms. Jackass.
When Dasha came back from the park, she was wearing a sundress instead of skinny jeans. How many outfits did she have in that shoulder bag of hers? And how did she change so quickly? Practice. It had to be practice. Did she stand in front of the mirror every night, timing how long it took to put on pants? She moseyed along the sidewalk, past Belgravia Place, and an hour passed before she slid onto the seat beside me with a salmon Niçoise salad and a bottle of sparkling water.
“Who is that?”
She didn’t need to point. The concierge helped a pretty redhead to wheel a stroller down the ramp at the side of the steps, and I squinted as she came closer.
“I think it’s Grace Fields, sixth floor. Her husband’s an investment banker.”
“You think?”
I angled my laptop so Dasha could see the screen. “The hair’s different.”
She only needed one glance. “It’s her.”
Dasha never forgot a face, so Emmy said, which I figured was both a blessing and a curse. Why was it that the people I wished I could erase from my mind formed my most vivid memories?
“This food is surprisingly edible,” Dasha said. “I didn’t have high hopes.”
“There’s still no sign of Daisy.”
“No matter. We’ll see her tomorrow.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I have a plan now.”
I kind of expected her to give me a clue what it was, but she just forked an anchovy into her mouth and checked her phone. Alex. I saw the name flash up on the screen, and the first line of the message said he wanted to… Yikes, was that physically possible? My cheeks burned.
